But then Brady said something I was too far away to hear, and his angry features melted into a smirking grin. That seemed to make Mac even more irritated as she thumped down hard in her seat and made a valiant effort to ignore my brother.
The contest kicked off with a brief word from Cole. With a good-ol’-boy grin, he thanked everyone for attending and supporting the opening of the restaurant while a few cooks emerged and passed out red baskets containing the hot-peppered wings.
Cole introduced the contestants next. There was Baker Ramsey, a retired school teacher and avidJeopardy!fan, followed by Beatrice Michaelson, a roofer from a women-owned-and-operated roofing business here in town. Next in the lineup was a teenage boy named Braiden Hixon, who I was ninety percent sure worked down at Bev’s Sno-Kones. Then there was my idiot brother grinning and hamming it up for the crowd. And last, but not least, Cole introduced Mac Clark.
“It’s like a train wreck,” I said to Mark. “I know something horrible is going to happen, but I can’t look away.”
He chuckled.
“I’ve got five minutes on the clock,” Cole called out as he held his watch aloft for the crowd. “Remember, y’all, you can use as much ranch dressing as you like, but you have to clean the bones and you only have five minutes. Then we’ll get you a glass of milk, a bowl of ice cream, whatever you need to cool down. Although, I can tell you, it’s not going to help. And you’re really going to hurt later. Hope none of you have a big date tonight.”
The customers laughed at the promise of impending gastrointestinal distress for those assembled.
But then Mac said, loudly enough to be heard, “Doubt Judd, here, has to worry about that.”
More laughter from the crowd.
Brady’s eyes narrowed, and he fired back, “Hope this doesn’t cause problems with your IBS, Mac Attack. Did you consult your doctor beforehand?”
Mac shot him a look that could have singed his eyebrows off.
Cole clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s get going before these two strangle each other. Remember, do not touch your eyes. Annnd, ready, set, here wego!”
In a flurry of movement, each of the five contestants lunged forward to grab their respective baskets. They tore into the first chicken wing, and the effects of the spice level were quickly apparent. Faces heated, deep red climbing across thecheeks of Baker and Beatrice. Sweat was visible on Brady’s upper lip and where it beaded beneath his eyes. Mac’s face was expressionless as she discarded the thoroughly cleaned bones from wing number one and then reached for the next.
The contestants were using the ranch dressing cup as a little swimming pool for their wings, all except the gangly teenager Braiden.
I nudged Mark with my knee. “Look at that kid go.”
“He’s a machine,” Mark replied.
Baker tossed his unfinished third wing into the basket and scooted away from the table. “I’m out.” His hands were shaking, and he looked like he was already experiencing some stomach upset. The staff rushed over with a bowl of ice cream, a glass of milk, and some wet wipes for Baker’s spice-covered hands.
“One down!” Cole called. “And two minutes remaining.”
MacKenzie and Brady were jockeying for space at the table, their elbows whacking into one another.
“Give me some space, you jackass,” Mac growled around her chicken wing.
“Keep your bony elbows on your own side, you delinquent,” Brady spat back. But he wasn’t looking so good. My brother still had three wings to go, and time was dwindling. He was starting to sweat through his ball cap.
Mac’s cheeks were the color of Red Hots, and she wasn’t faring much better.
Moments later, the teenage underdog raised his hands in victory. “Done!”
Cole came over to inspect his basket, and the kid was declared the winner.
Beatrice the roofer dropped her final wing back into the basket and moaned, “Thank God,” before the crowd erupted in applause.
Brady and Mac could be heard arguing throughout the aftermath of the ice-cream-and-wet-wipe delivery.
“You know, that kid’s taste buds probably aren’t even fully developed,” Mac complained. “What is he, twelve?”
“Let it go, you sore loser,” my brother said around a laugh.
“You’rea loser,” Mac snapped.
“I’m going to poke you in the eye with my wing finger,” he said, reaching toward her face.
